PIKE. How's that.
VASILI [significantly]. I see how a son of that great democracy can
apply himself to a dirty machine, while his eyes are full of visions of
one of its beautiful daughters.
PIKE [slowly and sadly, peering into the machine]. Doc, there's sand in
your gear-box.
VASILI [laughing]. So?
PIKE. You go down to the kitchen and make signs for some of the help to
give you a nice clean bunch of rags.
VASILI [surprised into hauteur]. What is it you ask me to do?
PIKE. I need some more rags.
VASILI [amused]. My friend, I obey.
[Makes a mock-serious bow and starts.]
PIKE. I won't leave the machine--'twouldn't be safe.
VASILI [halting, laughs]. You fear this famous bandit would steal it?
PIKE. No; but there's parties around here might think it was a
settlement.
VASILI. I do not understand.
PIKE [chuckling]. Doc, that's where we're in the same fix.
VASILI. Weidersehn, my friend.
[Exit into hotel.]
[PIKE kneels on the foot-board of machine above gear-box, begins to
clean, using an old rag, singing "Sweet Genevieve." A distant shot is
heard. PIKE looks up at this, ceasing to sing. Then he continues his
work and music. LADY CREECH leans out from her window, staring off to
the right with opera-glasses. There is a noise at the gates as some one
hastily but cautiously tries to open them.
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